“Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back:Tells Harry that the King doth offer him Katherine his daughter;and with her to dowry some petty and unprofitable dukedoms:The offer likes not;”

“Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus; and we petty menWalk under his huge legs, and peep aboutTo find ourselves dishonourable graves.”

“Say'st thou me so? is that a ton of moys? Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French What is his name.Boy-Ecoutez: comment etes-vous appele?French Soldier-Monsieur le Fer.Boy- He says his name is Master Fer.PISTOL-Master Fer! I'll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him: discuss the same in French unto him.Boy-I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.”

“Every subject's duty is the King's; but every subject's soul is his own. Therefore, should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him that escapes, it were no sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive the day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare.”

“But no perfection is so absoluteThat some inpurity doth not pollute.”

“The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,And flecked darkness like a drunkard reelsFrom forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels:Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,I must up-fill this osier cage of oursWith baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb;What is her burying grave that is her womb,And from her womb children of divers kindWe sucking on her natural bosom find,Many for many virtues excellent,None but for some and yet all different.O, mickle is the powerful grace that liesIn herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:For nought so vile that on the earth doth liveBut to the earth some special good doth give,Nor aught so good but strain'd from that fair useRevolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;And vice sometimes by action dignified.Within the infant rind of this small flowerPoison hath residence and medicine power:For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.Two such opposed kings encamp them stillIn man as well as herbs, grace and rude will;And where the worser is predominant,Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.”

“Full fathom five thy father lies;Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.”